


Serpent Circle

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Embarrassment, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Snake Behaviour, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), mild xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley takes some personal time, and Aziraphale really should have called ahead first.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 518
Collections: Aziraphale Treated Gently For Your Soul, Snakey Bits!Crowley





	Serpent Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Where I continue my terrible habit of failing to edit any of the things I've finished, and instead write something completely new.

Crowley doesn't answer the door when he knocks, though Aziraphale knows he's inside, he can feel the reassuring and familiar prickle of demonic presence. Which, as always, rings rather pleasantly against his own. Crowley's essence has had more than long enough to sink deep into the flat during his long years of occupancy. The only other place that feels remotely like it, is the passenger seat of the Bentley. Though it could be argued that the leather has now absorbed an almost equal amount of both ethereal and occult flavour. Reluctant as Aziraphale is to admit it, he does find the sharp, smokey familiarity of Crowley's unique energy oddly reassuring. He can't help but be curious whether the bookshop affects Crowley the same way, if touching the remnants and echoes of Aziraphale's essence is equally as reassuring, as comforting? Crowley's been spending significantly more time there, since they stopped Armageddon, sprawled on whichever piece of furniture pleases him, legs pulled up everywhichway, smiling at Aziraphale when he doesn't think he's looking. He's always looking, of course, the foolish demon should know that by now. But it's all more than enough to give Aziraphale hope.

He waits for a while longer, but the door remains firmly and disappointingly shut. There's always the possibility that Crowley's asleep, _dead to the world_ , as they say, so Aziraphale lets himself in. After all, Crowley has always insisted that he's welcome to visit any time, for any reason. He can always leave the bottle of spiced rum he'd promised him somewhere it will be noticed immediately, so Crowley knows that he stopped by, knows that he thought of him and visited. Perhaps on his desk? It will be a nice surprise for him when he wakes up. 

Aziraphale heads for the office, making as little noise as he can, though there's really no need for him to bother, Crowley is a notoriously deep sleeper. Aziraphale has even known him to sleep through a battle or two. Still, it's only polite not to go crashing round someone's else's home when they're sleeping -

He stops when he hears the faintest low hiss of his name, every syllable drawn out slowly and rolled over a forked tongue. Though it doesn't seem to be coming from the bedroom. No, it's much closer than that. Aziraphale sets his hand to the large swing-door leading into the office, and eases it partly open.

Oh.

It turns out Crowley isn't sleeping after all. Instead, he's spending time in his snake form, and Aziraphale can't resist the gentlest squirm of unexpected delight, because he so rarely gets to see Crowley relax like this, and never while he's transformed. The serpent of Eden is a strikingly handsome creature, a shining stretch and coil of black and red scales, truly magnificent from every angle. 

He's bigger than Aziraphale remembers, a great, heavy beast of a thing now, and the thick, impossibly long length of him is currently curled into a messy loop on the office floor. Crowley had circled around until he met his own tail, and then pulled himself up and over it, moving along his own broad length, continuing to follow his body upwards, as if he was intent on forming a spiral. His much narrower head moves in fidgety darts from one side to the other, tongue playing along his own scales in long, rapid flicks. Before he gives a slow push of forward momentum, and slithers with intent along his own spine.

As Aziraphale watches, the slow movement suddenly becomes a fast - and then much faster - circle. The whole, massive length of Crowley spinning around himself, his head following the thick spill of his body. Only for the motion to come to an abrupt stop, leaving a moment of tense stillness, before Crowley's body gently flexes, stretches, and the head rubbing across the tight pattern of his scales starts up again. There's the occasional long, deep hiss, a pulsing vibration of sound through the air of the room, that makes Aziraphale's skin tingle pleasantly. 

Crowley's head flattens, pushes down as he starts moving once more. He repeats the stuttering little nudges of forward momentum, the gliding push along his own body, that turns into a slow, shuffling spin, then finally a fast, circling drag.

It's fascinating, and beautiful to watch, like a performance, or a dance. There's the possibility that it is a dance, Aziraphale supposes, here in Crowley's own space, where no one can see him. The steady beats of movement, the slow, surging rhythm of it. It's certainly hypnotic, watching that spiral of motion repeat over and over - Aziraphale hates to interrupt it, but he's quickly realising that standing here watching without announcing himself is terribly rude.

"Crowley?"

The sound of his name is so much louder than the soft, sliding rush of scales - Crowley's whole serpentine body contracts sharply, the circle breaking apart completely as the demon briefly becomes a thrashing tangle of shock. The whole mass of him pulling away from Aziraphale's voice. Before there's a panicked, writhing motion, and Crowley is abruptly standing in front of him, staggering slightly, and fumbling sunglasses onto his surprisingly flushed face.

"Fuck - _Aziraphale_." His name almost sounds like an accusation, as if he'd crept inside during the night, intent on mischief, rather than knocked and then let himself in with the key Crowley had given him.

Before Aziraphale can offer a reply to that, Crowley is awkwardly moving himself behind his ridiculous throne, that he'd obviously pushed aside earlier to make room for his much larger snake form. The demon wheezes out a breath, then fumbles his way into what's clearly supposed to be a casual lean on the back of the chair, long hands curling tight around its gold edges. His mouth is a twitching line, eyebrows confused, or possibly panicked, above his glasses. 

"How long have you -" Crowley seems to realise how oddly out of breath he is. He clears his throat and tries again. "How long have you been there?"

Aziraphale offers him an apologetic pinch of mouth, because Crowley is clearly horribly embarrassed about being discovered relaxing in his serpent shape.

"Oh, only a short while. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner." Aziraphale wants to reach out, but Crowley looks taut as a bowstring, as if he might run given half the chance. He clasps his hands together instead, decides to be honest. "I was quite enthralled by what you were doing, the fluidity of your motion, the rhythm of it, like a beautiful ouroboros. You quite took my breath away." 

"Ngk." Crowley leans a little harder into the chair, until it creaks loudly, mouth twitching up and then down, before pulling itself into a carefully neutral position. "What I was doing?" It's a wispy rasp, shocked almost, as if what he'd been doing had been something terribly shameful and indecent.

As if he'd been -

Oh?

_Oh_.

The captivating, hypnotic surge and spin of scales, and the urgent, low hissing take on an entirely new meaning suddenly. Which does actually make far more sense than Crowley deciding to perform any sort of dance by himself. Aziraphale had walked in on Crowley while he was - and then he'd not only admitted to watching, he'd complimented him. He'd told him how nice he looked while he was - _dear God_.

The silence drags on, develops weight and substance, threatens to become the sort of thing that will lead to long periods of avoidance, unexpected naps, and possibly some sort of guilty baking frenzy on Aziraphale's part.

Unacceptable.

"Rum," Aziraphale says desperately, as if he'd just remembered what he was holding. His voice chooses a volume rather too loud to be sociable, but it does drown out the sound of his own mind quietly having some sort of anxiety attack. "Yes, it's for you, obviously. The spiced kind you like. I remembered this morning that I owed you a bottle, promised you a bottle, you've probably forgotten, terrible memory you have sometimes, but I'd been thinking about it recently. I've brought it - just popped in to bring it." He gestures with said bottle vigorously, heavy liquid sloshing. "I really should probably have knocked more loudly. My fault entirely, you weren't expecting me so early, of course. I will definitely make a note for next time." 

He's talking too fast, and half of it is nonsense, smiling in a way that probably still looks pained and apologetic. But Crowley's nodding along frantically as if they've both realised that they're teetering on the edge of a pit of social awkwardness and are heroically wrestling themselves back from the abyss by pretending said awkwardness had, in fact, never happened. 

"I didn't mean to interrupt you while you were - while you were -" Aziraphale's brain decides to immediately provide him with a variety of shockingly indecent ways to describe what Crowley had been doing. Which is extremely unhelpful. So he just waves a hand vaguely at the floor instead. Where Crowley had been pleasuring himself, before he'd so rudely interrupted him - his brain supplies that before he can stop it, bastard that it is. "Busy," Aziraphale finishes, in a rather desperate wheeze.

Crowley makes another noise, deeper in his throat than before, a quiet thing that sounds like want, or - Aziraphale imagines - like thwarted desire. And it leaves Aziraphale grasping frantically for an ending to the apology he's clearly trying to make.

"Glasses," Crowley blurts suddenly, loud enough to startle Aziraphale into almost dropping the bottle. "I'll get some glasses. We can share. We'll have a drink." 

It's Aziraphale's turn to nod furiously. Because of course Crowley is the one trying to rescue them both from this conversation. When Aziraphale is the one who barged in here uninvited, and made an absolute mess of things. Isn't that what Crowley does, save Aziraphale from whatever mess he'd gotten himself into?

"That sounds lovely," he says, with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. "I'll just wait here, shall I?" To give Crowley a moment to collect himself, and to take a moment to berate himself for his stupidity.

Crowley staggers his way into the kitchen area, leaving Aziraphale to stand in the office, by himself, holding a large bottle of rum far too tightly. The whole room smells like Crowley. The sharp, hot scent of serpent and brimstone, with the faint under-layer of something deeper, muskier, rich and alive. Every breath seems to fill his lungs with it.

If he concentrates, Aziraphale can still hear the sound Crowley's body had made, the slow, staggered rasp of scales, followed by the whispery, rushing surge as he moved, sliding over himself. Beautiful and fascinating, and now somehow also _erotic_. Something new and strange, and uniquely Crowley. Something Aziraphale suddenly and quite unexpectedly _coveted_.

The thick glass bottle creaks in his grip, and he forces himself to relax.

He knows that this will be another thing that they don't talk about. A vulnerable, intimately personal place that they mutually agree not to press on, not to discuss, and not to bring up. They will pretend it never happened, that Aziraphale never learned anything about Crowley today, that he never saw him like this, more naked, and honest, and lovely than he'd ever seen him before. Crowley will continue to keep this part of himself hidden, as if it's something shameful and unwanted, and Aziraphale will continue to say nothing.

He sets the bottle down on the desk before he breaks it.

Aziraphale finds, for the first time, that he doesn't want that to happen. He doesn't want things to stay the same, he doesn't want to constantly maintain this distance between them. What if, for once, he chooses to say something? 

What if he chooses to tell Crowley that this isn't something to be ashamed of? What if he told Crowley how beautiful he'd looked, how much Aziraphale enjoyed seeing him like that? If he confessed that he would quite like to watch him again if he'd allow it, if that was something that Crowley wanted. If that was something that they could be together, an intimacy they could share. Did Crowley want that? How would Aziraphale ever know unless he asked?

Aziraphale wants to touch him, he wants to set a hand on that shining river of scales, he wants to feel them flex and contract beneath his fingers. He wants to know if Crowley would find pleasure in the warmth of his skin, or the curious squeeze of his hands. He wants to feel the movement as Crowley slides over himself, to ask him what it's like to be serpentine, ask him what he thinks about while he takes his own weight, presses into his own back. Aziraphale wants to ask if he could stay with him, if he could see Crowley like this, if he wanted Aziraphale to be part of it. If he could sink to the floor, and feel that rush of scales across his own skin. He wants to _know_.

He wants to ask questions.

Perhaps this time he will.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there's technically nothing explicit enough in this for an M. But one character is actively masturbating, for roughly a third of the story, so I'm covering all the bases.


End file.
